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A death on the tracks, during rush hour

On death: or life?

Self-Publishers in India

A Sign of Life!

There is no justice

Published Works

Rao cursed his wretched boss. Sometimes, he thought his boss had Arjuna’s chariot, that floated in the air, maybe so much that it allowed him to seamlessly wade through the river and its occupants. Why did God favour bosses anyway? Did they not go to the same temple as them? Did they not do the same puja, chant the same prayers, ask for the same blessings?
Something happened to him in his mid-20s. He raised questions like most men his age do, when lying on the bed besides their partner later at night. What is religion? Why do I need it? Why do we need a god? What is his/her function? Such questions boggled him, and his mind plunged into the depths of philosophical discourse from where he had trouble resurfacing. 
He was wearing his emerald uniform and his right thumb dangled from his belt. Under the cap, his face was clean-shaven, and his eyes moved quickly around the room. He was invisible except for the way his wrists flicked. It looked familiar.


It is tough to place this book in any one strict category/genre. Seven Sundays is about so many things, a fable hiding inside the story of a man’s personal and professional struggles- this scheme of a story within a story is tough to execute but Shouvik has managed to do it. This alone shows that the author has mettle.